


Wait for It

by KellerProcess



Series: Cheap Thrills [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, BPD junkrat, Blowjobs, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Typical Violence, Derealization, Dissociation, Junkrat has borderline personality disorder and doesn't know it, M/M, Oral Sex, Some ableist language, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 19:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7187714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellerProcess/pseuds/KellerProcess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>De-anoning from the kink meme. The prompt is:</p><p>ok i know everyone's into super rowdy and rough fucking w junkrat but consider:<br/>junkrat subbing with someone who likes to fuck Really Slow And Tender for the first time and junkrat being confused and overwhelmed by the incredibly affectionate lovin' on<br/>bonus points for body worshipping/praise and even more bonus points for jamie being Really into it, as it turns out</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait for It

Junkrat thinks the proposition is straightforward enough—fifty percent share of the proceeds from any job. Seventy-thirty was what most would offer, but he was generous like that. Well, and running for his life, but mostly generous. 

“Hmmm,” the killer, mercenary, and all-around badass who called himself Roadhog huffs behind his gas mask. The nose is upturned and shaped like a pig’s snout, but hell if Junkrat is judging. Everyone was all a little bit bonkers these days, after all. Behind the lenses, Roadhog’s eyes flick up and down, as if assessing what he sees before him—a skinny kid with singed hair and a right side that’s part low-tech cyborg, part garbage dump.

Junkrat sucks in a slow, deep breath. Is Roadhog gonna demand more? Laugh in his face? Kick his arse, then break him like a twig over one huge knee?

He likes that last idea entirely too much for someone who wants to live through this encounter. But, well. _Bonkers_ , like he said.

“I’ll do it,” the big fella says. “But—” His raised finger cuts off Junkrat’s interjection. “I want more.”

“More…money?” Junkrat asks. Oh, sure, he wants the protection, but, really, even your own life eventually has its price. “Sorry, mate. Fifty-fifty’s as far as this ride goes.”

“I’m not talking about money,” Roadhog rumbles, and crikey doesn’t that mask make him sound like a sentient orgasm?

“Okay…,” Junkrat says, twitching a metal finger in slow, subtle circles to get him to cut off the dramatics already.

“I want you.”

Junkrat distinctly hears warning sounds, but when has he ever listened to the noises his head made at him? “Uh, well, y’ve got me, mate,” he says, hands out wide, all “ta-da” style.  
Roadhog does that low growling thing again that turns Junkrat’s stomach to mulch. Warm, sexified mulch at that. “Don’t be stupid, Rat. I want _you_. That mouth, those hands, that tight little arse. You on hands and knees, begging for my dick.”

Junkrat feels like he’s just swallowed one of his own grenades. “Uhm,” he says as it burned a path down his throat to explode in his stomach. 

“Well?”

“S-sure, mate,” Junkrat wheezes. “Your dick, my arse, my mouth...you just say when.”

_Is when right now? Eh? Please say it’s right now._

Roadhog nods as he holds out one massive paw of a hand. Junkrat may have been a skinny streak of piss made out of adrenaline and wire, but he’d never felt _dainty_ until Roadhog closed his fingers around his entire hand with plenty of room to spare.

“Not right now, though,” he says, as if reading Junkrat’s thoughts. “Wait for it.”

*** 

And wait Junkrat has—much to his disappointment. Heist after heist, job after job, day and night after day and night, and the fat man still wouldn’t collect. 

It’s not like Junkrat hasn’t tried, either. When placing a mine on a target—okay, _mines_ ; why use just one when you could use _ten_?—he’d make sure to stick his arse out; shake it a bit. During a getaway on Hog’s chopper, he’d cling to one big, heavy arm while giving the jacks the finger. And when they got back to their base—wherever the hell it was that night—he’d made a point of stripping down in front of Hog to scrub off the soot and grime, and didn’t bother putting on a pair of boxers before bedding down next to him.

Hog slept with the damn mask on, though fuck knew how that was comfortable, so Junkrat couldn’t see his expression as he looked at him in silence before saying, “Wait for it.”  
And Junkrat would toss and turn even more than usual on those nights, unable to sleep even after he rubbed one, two, three out.

People always took what they wanted from him, and he always loved it.

He’d made it clear to Hog, over and over and over, that he’d love being absolutely crushed by the bloke.

What the hell was the problem?

Junkrat knows he isn’t much to look at. Sure, most Junkertowners were fucked up in some way—a limb lost here, a tumor there, a mouth of teeth left who knows where. That wasn’t the point. He was fucked in a different way. He didn’t know how, or even all of the time, but he knew it sometimes, and that was enough. He got clingy, angry, scared, all the time, that anyone he touched would throw him away, so he’d learned to keep his hands and his heart to himself. Except, of course, for when he didn’t, and then the whole disaster would begin all over again.

Sometimes he hates Hog for this cockteasing—or whatever the hell it is. Thinks about firing him so at least he can be the one who leaves first. But he’s sane enough, he’d like to think, to know that would’ve been suicide. The whole world is after him after what he’d seen in the Omnic wreckage, and even with all the nitro in Australia, he couldn’t stop one of them from finally killing the secret out of him.

So he just robed, and killed, and bombed, and simmered, and simmered while Hog looked on with that impassive, stitched-up smile.

***

He doesn’t know if Hog is messing with him now or what, but it’s getting damnright annoying. 

Every so often—enough it wasn’t a coincidence—Hog would touch him. At first, Junkrat thought it was an accident. A brush of a finger against his arse when they were crawling through a tight space. A bump against his back if he was following down a hallway and Junkrat stopped too fast. Then he thought it was, you know, blokey-like. Bumping stomachs when they pulled off a damn good score. A pat on the shoulder and a quick backrub when things went all sour.

But soon he realizes it’s just happening too much, and for no reason. Who pets another fella’s hair if he doesn’t want some bangaroo?

“Hog,” he says one night when the big fella moves in close to rub his shoulders.

“Hmm?”

“This is…no, Hog.” As much as he hates pulling away from that touch, Junkrat turns over on his side to face the bodyguard who has, fuck knows how, been feeling less like his bodyguard and more like his best mate lately. His only mate, he reminds himself. And really, since when did he allow anyone to get that close?

“No?” Hog asks. Junkrat doesn’t have much in the way of a face with Hog to read, which is an ongoing problem. When nearly everything people said to you sounded like a threat, you had to rely on their faces to tell for sure. And Hog’s eyes alone, which are barely visible through the dark glass of the mask as it was, don’t give you a whole lot to work with.

“If you want me to stop…,” Hog says, wriggling away just as Junkrat shakes his head.

“That’s the point, mate,” Junkrat whispers, looking down at his flesh hand. His fingers are long and calloused after being burned and scraped again and again for so many years. _Just like other parts of me_ , he tells himself, looking at the blanket instead so he can stop thinking. “I don’t want ya to stop. I want ya to collect on what you’re owed.”

“Oh?”

That slight inflection of his voice makes Hog sound like he’s laughing.

Junkrat’s stomach plummets to his feet. Because of course he is. “Shit, ya der brain! You know what I like! Tie me up, shove your gloves down my mouth, and fuck me up the arse ’til I pass out.”

They’ve talked about it enough times, after all—all attempts on Junkrat’s part to drop some A-bomb-sized hints, because apparently that’s what you have to do with people like Roadhog.

“Hmm.”

“What the bloody hell do ya mean, ‘hmm’?” Junkrat shouts, not giving a good god damn if every jack in five separate counties hears them and comes running. “You told me, when this started, that you wanted me.” He spreads his arms wide. “So take me! 

Hog huffs out a great sigh. “I don’t want to fuck you.”

Junkrat’s heart cracks right down the middle. _Oh,_ he thinks. _Here it comes._ Hog is just having him on or maybe he just got disgusted by him after seeing all the weird shit he does and the way his mind never shuts the hell up or maybe too much screaming and fits and nights when he wants to kill everyone and everything has made Hog feel more like Junkrat’s babysitter than his mate or maybe he— 

“I want to make love to you.” 

_—shit, I don’t know. Maybe he just doesn’t like skinny blonds!_

“Junkrat?” 

Junkrat hears Roadhog’s voice from what feels like a great depth. His limbs are heavy, and everything feels muffled. Ringing, like your ears do after a detonation if you don’t cover them.

“Junkrat?”

Big hands on his shoulders, a gentle shake. He shakes his head in turn and kicks toward the surface. 

“Uh,” he says as the color and sound comes back to the world. “Uh….”

“Where did you go?” 

Fuck, that voice is so gentle behind his mask. Not at all like when they’re in the middle of a heist and Hog’s shooting shrapnel at the jacks, or when he’s hooking someone and flinging them up over his head.

It’s almost always the voice Hog uses to talk to him, come to think of it.

“Dunno,” he admits with a shrug. “But…somewhere where I can’t have heard you right.”

Hog nods. “No, I think you did. I don’t want to fuck you, Jamie. I want to make love to you.”

That name is like a detonation. “Why?” Junkrat explodes, only it sounds more like a whimper.

Instead of answering right away, Hog pulls him close with one arm and pets his singed hair with one giant hand.

“Because you’re Junkrat,” he says as if it makes all the sense in the world. “And because I stopped wanting to just fuck you a long, long time ago.” He’s silent for a beat. “Maybe I never even did.”

“Then why…?” he asks, looking up at him with stinging eyes. Goddamn it, he’s not going to get all sooky here if it kills him!

“Even I’m afraid of some things.”

That gets a snort. “What? You?”

In response, Roadhog lets go of Junkat’s back, reaches around his head, and starts unfastening straps.

“Oh…,” Junkrat says dumbly. He can only stare as Hog removes the only face Hog has shown him for the last year.

“More than you know,” Hog says. His voice is softer now, without the amplification of the mask, but still sonorous, still the sexiest damn thing Junkrat’s ever heard. And so’s his face, really. Slowly, Junkrat runs his fingertips along the firm, round jaw, the wide nose, the scars lashing across Hog’s left cheek. 

It’s hard to imagine that being true, but then it’s hard to imagine Hog wanting to do something like this in the first place. So maybe he really shouldn’t look a gift pig in the mouth.

Junkrat’s steel pin of a leg wobbles only a little as he rises up as high as he can and swings up into Hog’s arms to brush their lips together.

When Roadhog pulls him up against his broad chest and parts Junkrat’s lips with his tongue, Junkrat closes his eyes on a sigh.

“Okay,” he whispers when they both finally admit they need to breathe. “Okay.”

***

Roadhog has giant hands. Junkrat’s seen them in action plenty of times: smashing in the face of a jack or another official-like person standing between them and what they want; hurling his hook out to catch someone to mangle them to the ground or string ’em up. More nights than he can remember, he’s fallen asleep imagining those hands beating his ass; squeezing his neck until it’s nothing but one massive bruise; spreading him wide for what he knows is a whopper of a cock—they’ve seen each other piss, after all.

Junkrat didn’t realize they could be so gentle. But they lift all six and a half feet of him without a hitch and lay him down on the sleeping bags they’ve spread out on the concrete floor of the old warehouse serving as tonight’s hideout. 

“Can I…?” Roadhog asks, running fingers over Junkrat’s belt.

“G-good-o.” Junkrat tries to sound casual and winces when he fails. But Hog just chuckles as his thumbs and forefingers set to work Crikey. He doesn’t even need his whole hands to do the job! It’s like someone watched Junkrat’s dreams and put the best parts all together into one dead-sexy, brown-eyed fella with a pointy smile and just enough stubble to make Junkrat’s shorts tent even more. 

“Excited?” With another good-natured chuckle, Hog whisks Junkrat’s shorts down and off, along with his boot, leaving him bare but for a few bandages.

“Mhh,” Hog says approvingly as he lowers himself to crouch over Junkrat’s slender body. “Beautiful.” 

“Fuck off.” Junkrat says it on a laugh, but he has the sudden urge to cover himself; to keep those wide, dark eyes from studying his narrow chest, his too-curvy hips, the cock standing at attention between a wispy clutch of flame-yellow. 

“Beautiful,” Hog repeats with a stern look before he lowers his lips to Junkrat’s again. They don’t part until they’re both gasping. “You don’t know how many times I jerked off picturing this,” he says between kisses along Junkrat’s neck and shoulders. 

“Mhh, lemme guess. Four million?”

“More,” Hog insists, getting a titter out of Junkrat. “But I lost count long before then. Too distracted by these.” He ghosts his hands along the slopes of Junkrat’s hips and around then to his arse. “And wanting to bury my dick in this.”

Junkrat makes an approving noise as Hog squeezes his cheeks and those lips and tongue swirl around his nipples. “Good thing I do the counting then, ya twit,” he purrs.

“Yeah,” Hog agrees. “But now I’m finally getting to, maybe I’ll do a better job.”

“Hmm,” Jamie buzzes. “And who says I’m lettin’ you knock on me back door, now?”

“You don’t want to?” Hog’s eyes droop with disappointment, but his voice is still that same gentle tone, and hell if that doesn’t make Junkrat fall even harder. It’d be so easy for him to roll Junkrat over and take whatever he pleased, as if his boss was stack of cash or a solid-gold Rolex begging to be worn. 

Instead, he asks. And wants an answer.

“No lube,” Junkrat reminds him, right as he comes to a realization. There is no lube because he hasn’t gotten laid ever since he made this one-man operation a two-man venture. No, ever since then his life’s pretty much revolved around the guy currently kissing a path to his dick.

The thought puts a smirk on his face. “And dunno about you, mate, but I don’t feel like knocking over a milk bar at this hour to get us some and a box of frangers. Uhm. Not that I don’t want it,” he adds as he creeps a hand out onto one big shoulder. “Just…maybe…?”

He doesn’t dare suggest there’ll be a later. Good thing Roadhog gets it in one. 

“Next time,” Hog reassures him before kissing his flat stomach. “I’d rather suck you anyway.”

“Bloody hell,” Jamie gasps. “Did you fall from heaven or somethin’? That’s not a pickup line,” he informs Hog. He does have his pride, after all.

“Then I won’t answer,” Hog says before leaning down and taking Junkrat into his mouth. 

Roadhog’s good at a lot of things. Smashing down doors. Killing people. Pulling Junkrat back from the brink when he’s about to do something he’ll later realize was kind of fucked in the head. Looking smoking hot in those overalls and boots. And now Junkrat can add cocksucking to that ever-growing list. On a groan, he clenches his fists in the sleeping bags beneath him and greedily rocks his hips upward as Roadhog, balancing on one hand, runs the other up and down Junkrat’s chest, swirling a finger around a nipple, dipping into his belly button, ghosting along his side. It’s like after who knows how many weeks and months of fantasy, Roadhog can’t decide what to touch first, now he has the whole hog, as it were.

The pun makes Junkrat grin, and he arches his back more, working into and with Roadhog’s mouth until they’ve build up a rhythm for a good suck and grind. He’s never been great shakes at holding back or being patient, so in just a few minutes he’s yelling Hog’s name to the empty warehouse as he splashes down that wide throat.

He just can’t wait to bite all sorts of kisses into it.

And bloody hell. Did Hog just _swallow_?

“Did you just…?” he tries to ask before he can really breathe again.

Roadhog licks his lips and gives him a thumbs-up.

Junkrat can’t help it. He starts laughing. Eyes-squinched, arms-flailing laughter until he’s wondering if he’s laughing or crying or both or neither and fuck it’s confusing being him when his emotions won’t sit still for five bloody seconds so he can figure out just what the hell he’s feeling.

“You okay?” Roadhog rumbles, palming Junkrat’s entire head.

“Mh,” Junkrat murmurs, turning his cheek into his best friend’s touch as arrow on the Wheel of Feels stops right between _content_ and _loved_ —and then ticks right on over into _fucking terrified_.

What if this was just a fuck to Hog after all? What if now he’s gotten it out of his system, that’ll be it? What if he’ll just take his money, cut his losses, and leave?  
Just like that, he’s under the surface again, in that abyss with no sound, his limbs too leaden to tread water.

“Where’d you go?”

Hog’s hand wrapping around his, pulling him back to air and light.

Junkrat blinks up at Hog. Bites his lip. “Don’t…,” he says. “Don’t go?”

And Hog doesn’t even need to look confused. He understands immediately, because of course he does. 

“Not going anywhere,” he says as he rolls onto his side and gathers Junkrat up against him. 

Junkrat sighs as the last of the numbing cold seeps away. He tries to say about a thousand things at once, but the only one that comes out is “Good.”

Hog holds him like that for a while. Junkrat isn’t sure how long, because he’s pretty sure that time as he knows it flows differently in Mako Rutledge’s arms. So when he finally moves his knee and bumps up against a very hard, very _big_ dick, he can’t help but feel bad.

“You didn’t….”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Nah, but that’s not fair, is it?” Junkrat asks, looking up as he cups Hog’s cheek. “Let me take care of you too.”

Hog’s protest melts into a smile as Junkrat wriggles in that warm blanket of a grip and starts to kiss his way down his best mate’s—his lover now—chest.

“Hurry,” Hog pants. “Need you.”

And despite everything—or maybe just because Hog is here and warm and maybe, just maybe, even _his_ to keep—Jamie laughs as he aligns himself on his side, right in front of the cock that, by crikey, he’s going to spend all day tomorrow riding if it kills him.

“Wait for it,” he teases before leaning in to give it a good, long lick.


End file.
